Eh, Scoob?
by amynicole94
Summary: The Mystery Gang is gone now. Everything is gone. All that is left in a zombie apocalypse world is one man and his big dog.


The fire emitted crackles and pops as a burnt log fell, sending a spray of sparks into the night sky as the silence was broken. No sooner had the eruption happened did the noise and flashes die down, leaving only a faint orange glow on the face of a man and a dog.

"Rough day today, eh Scoob?" the man asked, patting the dogs neck as he reached down for two boxes, "I never thought we would get out of that cluster." The massive beast raised his head and watched as the man pulled a thin rectangle of paper from one box and a generous pinch of dried tobacco from the other. Giving a huff, the dog layed his head back down on his crossed paws, the glowing embers reflected in his large brown eyes.

"We must've taken out at least twelve today. I don't know about you, but I'm dog tired." The man laughed softly at his own joke, but fell quiet when the animal lay still at his feet. The man rolled his cigarette, placed the end in his mouth, and lighted it with a burning stick. All the while the great dog just ignored him, his chest slowly rising and falling as he watched the fire.

The man took a drag from his cigarette, leaning his head back to exhale the smoke slowly. His weathered face softened a bit as he scratched the stubble on his chin and smiled. "Remember the good old days, Scoob?"

Still no reply.

The man sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and took another drag. "We used to have so much fun; you, me, Velma. Fred and Daphne too. Chasing monsters, solving mysteries. Of course, the monsters back then weren't real. Not like now. They were just troubled people in disguise. There wasn't anything we couldn't solve. Anything we couldn't figure out. Now look at us; fighting against a disease we know nothing about. Against monsters that are real. Surviving one day at a time…"

The man trailed off, falling against the back of his chair. Another drag. "This isn't like the stuff we used to smoke, is it?" He raised his cigarette before his eyes and rolled it between his fingers. "Nah, nothing like good ol' Mary Jane. 'Course, we can't have that anymore. Can't be caught unaware. Not in times like these. Right, Scoob?" His voice broke.

He hated himself for it. Hated that he was so caught up with the past. Hated that the fun days of getting high and causing trouble were long gone. Hated that his longtime buddy was gone. Hated that the only way he could talk to Scooby was when his mind was clouded with drugs. And yet he still tried.

He took one last drag from his smoke and tossed it away.

"Do you miss them, Scoob? Daphne and Velma? Fred?"

He reached down to the holster on the belt piled at his feet and retrieved a gun.

"I sure do. I miss Velma, with her clunky glasses. She always blew me away with how much she knew."

He swung the cylinder of the revolver out.

"And Daphne. She always looked so pretty and smelled so nice. Like peach cobbler with hot sauce."

He checked and saw two bullets loaded. That's all that was left.

"We can't forget about Fred. You know, I never stop wondering if there was something I could have done to save him. Something other than a bullet to the brain."

He flipped the revolver closed.

"It's just you and me now, Scoob."

The dog's thick tail softly thumped on the ground, buffing small dust clouds into the cool air. The man could see those large brown eyes looking at him, even though the dog hadn't moved.

"But I've got a surprise for you, boy. Come on, get up!"

The Great Dane got up slowly, age showing the toll it had taken on his enormous body, and sat before his master, his still bright eyes watching attentively and his tail swishing back and forth in the dirt. The man reached down and rubbed the dog between the eyes, just where he liked it, and the dog leaned his great head into his master's hand.

The man reached into his pocket. "You don't know how long I've been holding on to this, buddy." When his hand reemerged, a cookie was held in its palm. The edges had been crumbled away, the symbol on the front gone with wear, but the dog knew what it was all the same.

"That's right, boy. I saved you a Scooby Snack."

The old dog, despite his arthritic hips and old bones, couldn't contain himself. He jumped up, his tail wagging furiously, his front paws finding it hard to keep themselves on the ground. He gave an excited, hoarse bark. The man tossed the treat to the ground, and the dog pounced on it.

He then lifted his gun.

"It's been great, old boy. I'll never have another friend like you, Scooby Doo."

The silence of the night was broken again as a shot rang through the cold air. And then once more as the second shot fired. Then nothing more but the small hisses and pops of the dying fire.


End file.
